


They Spun A Web For Me

by RogueAlice_91



Category: Thir13en Ghosts (2001)
Genre: Break from reality, Friendship/Love, M/M, Male Friendship, Male-Female Friendship, OCC - Freeform, References of inhumane treatment, References to Homophobia, Slash/Pre Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 06:20:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/647506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RogueAlice_91/pseuds/RogueAlice_91
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Insanity...for most it conjured up images just like him, a straitjacketed man with wild hair and darting eyes growling and violent. But Ryan knew what it really was, it was tendrils of smoke ease into your mind as if through a closed door. It wrapped you up in its choking embrace and slowly suffocated who you were.</p>
            </blockquote>





	They Spun A Web For Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the song Trouble by Coldplay.

Harsh florescent lights glared down on the trapped spirits caged in glass. Silence was the norm most days but sometimes things would turn. In his cube, across from the blood drenched one of The Angry Princess, The Jackal paced. His silent footsteps, nonexistent from decades of practice, was in tune with his light breathing. A million buzzing thoughts like bees swarmed Ryan Kuhn's mind and he groaned aloud, hands reaching up to clutch his aching skull only to be stopped by metal. 

'Oh that cage.' He thought vaguely before clenching his jaws as a wave of pain radiated from his head. Hardly ever did he feel like this, less than the animal he was suppose to be and more like the man he was. 'It feels like when those white coats tried out a new treatment...gods this hurts.' The remark was followed swiftly by agony and Ryan stopped his pacing. A whine crept out of his mouth, slipping past clenched sharp teeth. 

He longed to open his mouth and scream like he use to in Borehamwood when he was alive. But due to there still being living people in the house they weren't allowed to make noise, something about disrupting things upstairs. Sometimes he heard The Firstborn Son whimper or The Torn Prince drag his baseball bat across the floor. 'Sometimes I think I'm still at the asylum and this is another 'cure'.' The buzzing in his mind, words and phrases eager to be spoken, quieted at that. 

It was true, sometimes he thought he was in 1908 again and all this, all the other ghosts, were figments of his shattered mind. Then he wondered how it was possible that he, Ryan, would even be smart enough to dream up so many unique characters. He was smart yes, or he use to be, before the forced insanity occurred. 

Insanity...for most it conjured up images just like him, a straitjacketed man with wild hair and darting eyes growling and violent. But Ryan knew what it really was, it was tendrils of smoke ease into your mind as if through a closed door. It wrapped you up in its choking embrace and slowly suffocated who you were. And for Ryan that was the son of a prostitute, a product of hard lessons learned in painful ways, a killer created. 

These days, since he had been confined to this house, he'd regained control of himself away from the vicious pull of the asylum. Borehamwood, Ryan came to discover, was a place where the sane became insane or at least, in some cases, the insane became more so. It was whispered in the bright fake-clean corridors that the building had been built upon an old burial ground. Another explanation Ryan had heard was a witch had been a patient when it first opened and was mistreated by a doctor and as a result, cursed the establishment. 

Whichever tale you accepted and clung to like a lifeline it didn't change the fact that nothing could help once you entered that place. There were days when Ryan's perception of past and present blurred. Days when he was frantic and huddled in the corner like the animal everyone thought he was. And then there was the day when he met Horace...and everything changed. 

* * * * * * * * * * * * * flashback * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

He sensed it, a subtle shift in the air, something was going to happen. Looking at the 10 others in their cubes he knew they too had noticed whatever it was. A gleam of barely concealed hope flashed in The Torn Prince's brown eyes. The Bound Woman giggled as if she knew a secret. The Firstborn Son quivered at the thought of a new playmate or possibly being let out. 

Ryan stood dead center in his cube watching everything and everyone's reactions. In the distance he heard a rumble and he cocked his head to the side, mindful of not overbalancing and falling. It wasn't thunder he was sure of it. 'We must be getting a new one. Hopefully the last one.' That thought filled him with something, a strange mix of hope and fear. He could understand the fear, if this was the last piece of the puzzle it had to be the worse of all of them. The hope was another matter entirely. 

A grinding sound signaling the opening of the house was the next indication they would be getting a new occupant. Ryan's keen odd eyes targeted the glass nearest him, from which the sound emanated. The beam of a truck's headlights cut through the space, hitting Ryan just enough to cause him to cringe and hiss. 

As always, the cube was backed up into the open space and pulled with a scraping sound off the bed of the trailer. Ryan stumbled back to the furthest corner of his cage as he took stock of this new unlucky occupant. 

He was in a word, giant. Ryan would have to guess he was seven feet tall at least. Upon closer inspection he noted the myriad of bullet holes on the newcomer's skin and clothes. His hair, Ryan saw, was blonde with fleck of blood like twisted highlights. His tattered work clothes were the same shade of azure as his skin and, when Ryan caught sight of them, his blue-gray eyes. As he banged and railed against the glass the spirit's muscles bulged and the thick corded veins throbbed. 

Ryan's breath caught as he saw the bigger ghost turn to him. He immediately cringed and made himself as small as possible, a habit beaten into him by burly orderlies. 'Like this fellow.' Pulling back scarred lips in a semblance of a snarl, Ryan glared at the massive spirit. His narrowed as he watched his 'prey', unconsciously sliding into a hunting crouch. 

Then, just as he was coiled to spring, the taller one stepped up to the glass separating them. Ryan's muscles quivered with energy like thousands of insects were crawling underneath his skin. The other spirit, who hadn't spoke a word other than to yell and curse, raised his heavy thick hand to the glass. And then he said the words Ryan never heard once in his life: "I won't hurt you. Its alright." 

The voice was deep, smooth and slow as an old river. The Jackal bared his teeth for a moment, nostrils flaring as if to smell the truth of the other's words. Finally he parted ragged lips and did what he was so afraid to do. "Will it? Who are you to know that?" It was a valid question, one burning his stomach and throat on the way to his mouth, like vomit. After all, the bloke just got here so how could he know anything about Ryan? 

The giant man shrugged and flexed his hand. "Yes. I am, was, Horace Mahoney. New name's The Juggernaut, or at least that's what they called me, those men." Ryan huffed before he told him his name. "Ryan...Kuhn. The Jackal." His Black Zodiac name left a bitter taste in his mouth and he didn't know why.

At the asylum they gave him a number and later on addressed him just as 'the animal.' He was surprised he even remember his name in life, Ryan being an ordinary name around his part of London. 'If you lived long enough to be named at all.' That thought drifted from his mind like fog when The Juggernaut cleared his throat.

"Any chance of us getting out of these boxes soon?" The tone in which the question was said was wistful. Before the twisted man could answer however, The Withered Lover, Gene Kriticos spoke up. "Not in the immediate future, I don't think." Her voice was soft and soothing, the only one of them whose didn't grate on Ryan's always jangled nerves. 

'Horace too has such a voice.', whispered a traitorous voice in the back of his mind. Ryan growled and shook his head, trying to rid himself of that slippery little worm.

Gene, ever insightful, noticed this and frowned. "Ryan? Are you alright?" The note of motherly concern in her voice made the Englishman want to weep. Stiffly he nodded and knowing she'd want a verbal answer replied, "Yes. I'm just beginning to get a headache, that's all." It was only half a lie, he'd felt one stirring at the base of his skull and his temples but ignored it. 

A glance at Horace saw him flash a sympathetic look Ryan's way. A warm feeling surrounded Ryan and he knew if he were human he'd have been fighting back a blush. In life he hadn't been one to try and win the affections of anyone, in part because he was poor and 'unfit to harbor any kind of sensual stirring', as one of his mum's more learnt men said. Ryan knew from results of his nightly...activities that was untrue. At least the physical aspect anyway. 'Feelings aren't something I'd know a lot about to start with.'

A lance of pain stabbed his temples and he knew the line between past and present was blurred. High pitched whining came from somewhere and he heard urgent British voices around him. "Shut up in there you beast!" one said. "Bloody animal.", another muttered and Ryan realized the whining was coming from him. 

"Please..." His own voice was rough and his mouth was dry telling him he hadn't been fed or watered in days. His eyes roved over his slumped form as he experimentally checked his mobility. Bending his legs at the knees, he clambered to his feet, groaning as the dank room spun. 

He didn't know how far in the past he was until he saw his clothes. Standard white top and drawstring trousers meant he was just settling in to the asylum. His hands were straight and nails clipped like he had them before...before his 'treatments'. Without feeling his hair he knew it was hanging down out of its ribbon. Ryan licked his lips as a pang of hunger shot through him and his stomach growled. 

On slightly steadier legs Ryan shuffled to the door and leaned against it as a wave of dizziness overtook him. Swallowing to ease the dryness in his throat he rasped out "Please...water...please." After repeating his plea for another few minutes he gave up, sliding down to the grimy floor, exhausted. 'Any moment I'll be back to the present.' 

The thought gave him a measure of hope to cling to like a vine on a crumbling wall. His little jaunts to his life never lasted long unless he was in the midst of receiving a treatment. Then it lasted for an eternity, so long Ryan feared he would go mad again. 

It was the voices that signaled his return to the basement cell. A female voice, 'Gene.', his mind supplied was talking to a deep male voice. "Horace..." Ryan whispered to himself before opening his eyes slowly. Gene's voice once again lit on him. "How bad was it this time?" She was the only one to ask questions after his 'trips' concerning his wellbeing. 

Tiredly the small man rolled his shoulders. "Not too awful pet. No water or food, that's all." Ryan's lips spread into a parody of a grin. A growl beside him made him glance at Horace. What he saw turned his pale skin even whiter. Horace stood at the corner of his cell closest to Ryan's, his teeth bared and the look in his eyes would have killed ten men. 

Fearing that the giant had, for some reason, renounced his statement of protection, Ryan growled back softly. The warning seemed to snap Horace out of his rage and his eyes softened. "How often does that happen?" Ryan shook his head, he really hadn't kept track of when the lapses started, for all he knew they could have started at Borehamwood after his death. 

Gene answered for him, at least as much as she could. "They were happening when he got here. Although they have become less frequent." Ryan stared at his once again filthy nails unsure whether he should say anything. He didn't talk much to begin with, though if someone struck up a conversation with him he made the necessary replies.

Ryan watched Horace nod before returning his gaze to his feet. 

**********************end of flashback**************************

Over the months they had been in this dim lit hellhole Ryan had slowly, after that first meeting and the incident, become friends with the other serial killer. It was something the others expected, what with both he and Horace's targets being women. 

Lately however, Ryan's feelings have been changing, morphing into something stronger. He hadn't taken notice of it at first, not really. When he had it was the small things like how the blonde hair fell across Horace's ruined forehead. Then it was how his lips upturned with the barest hint of a smile when Ryan spoke. Or even the change in his shade of blue, sky when happy, midnight when angry or hurt. 

Ryan was unsure what to do. He still felt confined by his Victorian upbringing, despite his mother's 'job' she had taught him manners, mostly toward the fairer sex. 'I've already smashed those rules to bits.' He laughed to himself. As much as he'd learned on how to treat women, no one told him how other men should be handled. Which is why, after weeks of contemplation (and many mental arguments) Ryan decided to come clean about his feelings and the consequences be damned.

'What's the worst Horace can do? I'm already dead and have been so quite a long time.' Even with the thought no more harm could come to him, the Brit was still on edge. The worry was eating him up from the inside, affecting his already wrecked appearance. Gene tried to talk to him as a mother might but Ryan only half listened, forcing back that accursed lump in his throat at the concern in her voice. 

Horace hadn't said much, just told him in that calm solid manner that "Whatever you need, I'm here." Those words in themselves nearly had him shouting his affection for everyone to hear. Now, with his course set, Ryan paced the floor of his cube, first one way then the other. 

Finally he stood at the side nearest Horace, staring intently at the taller spirit. Filling his lungs with unneeded air he exhale slowly before speaking. "I want...I need to tell you something." Ryan had, during his opening statement lowered his mismatched eyes to the floor not wanting to see the disgust and rejection in his love's eyes. His desire to get it all out in the open spurred him on.

"Over the past few weeks I've discovered that I have more feelings toward you than just friendship. At first I tried in vain to deny it. I spent days and nights plagued with so many arguments with myself I thought I'd gone insanity yet again. Finally after Gene mentioned my haggard appearance I decided to tell you how I feel. That is, I love you Horace Mahoney." By the end of his speech Ryan was shaking, partly from fear but the better part from nerves. 

The silence in the basement seemed to stretch forever like the endless desert sands. Ryan could hear every shift and twitch from the other spirits, his sensitive ears alert for anything. Then, just when he had given up and was turning back to his 'brooding corner' as Horace himself had laughingly called it, a noise stopped him.

Horace, it seemed, had, during Ryan's impassioned confession moved closer to his somewhat sane friend. Now the giant man had his hand pressed upon the glass, much like the day they met. A small smile and shining sky blue eyes was what Ryan took in before Horace spoke four simple words. "I love you too."


End file.
